


Match Point

by Brenda



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Tennis, Chuck is the Pacific Rim Version of Rafa Nadal, M/M, Raleigh & Yancy are the Bryan Bros, Raleigh is a Dork
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-06 10:41:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3131579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brenda/pseuds/Brenda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"I dunno, whatever it is one says when one has had the best sex of one's life and runs out in the middle of the night and <i>then</i> is too chicken shit to call afterwards.  I mean, bro, you knew this day was coming."</i>
</p><p>Or:</p><p>On the eve of the 2025 Australian Open, Yancy Becket finally gets his shit together where one Chuck Hansen is concerned.  With Raleigh's help.  Kind of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Match Point

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fadedink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadedink/gifts).



> This might set a new record for late birthday gifts, but at least I finished it? Anyway, I LOVE YOU JOJO THIS IS ALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL FOR YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> And special thanks to G. for the beta!

**January 2025**

 

There were a lot of benefits to being one half of the most dominant men's doubles team in the world – endorsements, perks, money, all of the fun trappings of being a young, successful, famous athlete at the top of one's game – but mostly, Yancy liked the travel the best. Sure, the ATP Tour was way too fucking long and played absolute hell on trying to have anything remotely resembling a normal life (whatever normal was), but Yancy loved the craziness of it all. He got to cross the globe with his brother, Raleigh, play in some amazing cities, eat awesome foods, meet cool, new people, discover new things... It was all an adventure, and one he was determined to enjoy as long as his knees and Raleigh's shoulder held out and they could play the game they both loved at the highest level. Whatever happened after they hung up their rackets was for the future to decide, but for now, the Becket brothers were the number one doubles team in the world, with over sixty titles to their name, including the career Grand Slam and Olympic Gold, as well as a few Davis Cups. Yancy had it good, alright, and had achieved a rarified success that few people in the world could match.

Which didn't do a thing to assuage the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as the he stared out the tiny window of his first class airplane seat and watched as the skyline of Melbourne, Australia came into view. 

"Shoulda called him," Raleigh remarked from the seat next to him. He still had his nose buried in his book – some ridiculous looking fantasy novel with a dragon on the cover. His brother had the worst taste in reading material ever.

"And said what?"

"I dunno, whatever it is one says when one has had the best sex of one's life and runs out in the middle of the night and _then_ is too chicken shit to call afterwards. I mean, bro, you knew this day was coming."

"Shut up." They'd been bickering on and off about this the entire long-ass flight from Anchorage. "I should have never told you about Paris."

Raleigh set his book on his lap. Crystal blue eyes, the same exact shade as Yancy's, met his own. "You're fucking kidding, right? I was _in_ Paris. You didn't have to tell me dick about dick, especially what _your_ dick was up to."

The brat had a point, but Yancy would be damned if he said as much. "I meant about the sex."

Raleigh shrugged, a slow shoulder roll, and scoffed. "Wasn't that hard to figure out, even before you said anything. You get all goofy and sappy when you've had good sex. And you were really fucking goofy in Paris."

Paris... Christ, what a total disaster that had been. Not the sex part, because, as previously mentioned by his brother, that really had been spectacular and amazing and the best of Yancy's life, but what came after. When the magnitude of what Yancy had done – and who he'd done it with – had finally sunk into his head. When reality had reared its ugly head and Yancy had straight up panicked and run like his goddamn life had depended on it.

"I don't wanna talk about it," he finally said, as the plane began its descent. "We've got enough to worry about with defending our title."

"Pussy," Raleigh said, but mercifully went back to his book.

***

The Australian Open was by far the weirdest of the four major grand slam tournaments in tennis. It was the only one played in the South Pacific, for one, and it was also the first major event of the ATP Tour (Brisbane absolutely didn't count, even as a tune-up tournament, no offense to Brisbane), when everyone was still trying to shake off the rust of the off-season and prepare themselves mentally and physically for the long, grueling season ahead. Which meant that anything and everything that _could_ happen probably _would_ happen. Including top seeds getting upset in the early rounds and dark horse candidates making a run for the title, and all kinds of odd statistics and records getting broken. But the one that had stubbornly stood for the last fifty-some-odd years was the big one – no Australian man had won it since 1976, when Mark Edmondson had done it. 

Leyton Hewitt, way back in 2005, had been the last Aussie to even final until last year, when Charlie "Chuck" Hansen had taken Tendo Choi to five sets, only to lose the tiebreak, the match, and the championship when his backhand had sailed wide. But Hansen had, in the way of all great competitors, used that loss as fuel for the season, winning five titles, including his first ATP 1000 tournament (Paris) and his first Grand Slam at the US Open, and the Olympic Gold medal in Toronto. 

Everyone in Australia fully expected him to not only reach the finals again at this year's Australian Open, but to actually win it this time, and break the winless streak. No pressure or anything. Just the fate of a nation and a continent riding on the power forehand and tenacious, bulldog return game of a 23 year-old kid, with talent to burn and the temper to match.

Small wonder Chuck Hansen was so driven on the court, and so focused off the court. Smaller wonder that Yancy was so fascinated. Passionate, ambitious men were sort of his kryptonite.

It didn't help that Chuck was seriously hot, and not just for a green-eyed ginger, either. He had a body built like a tank, and moved like a bullfighter on the court, and radiated so much power and missile-like control during matches that he'd earned the nickname the Aussie Striker. Which was also just about the hottest thing ever, not that Yancy would ever admit to it if anyone asked. (Hot guys with hot nicknames, it was sort of another thing with him. He had weaknesses, okay.)

So maybe it wasn't a stretch that Yancy had chased Chuck like a hound dog chasing a fox for a solid year, and maybe it wasn't such a stretch that no one had been more surprised than him when Chuck had finally said yes. Chuck'd had a reputation for focusing every bit of his mental and physical energy on the game, not the perks, and he certainly didn't have a reputation for chasing tail in his downtime. (Which maybe made him even sexier, because who was Yancy kidding, just the _idea_ of getting all of that focus and drive directed his way was more than enough to get his dick hard.) 

And fuck, that night had been... Well, Yancy didn't like to brag or anything, but he was pretty sure that no one in the history of the human race had ever had sex that fucking good. It had been hot and slow and filthy and they'd wrecked the hotel room completely (Yancy had the bill to prove it) and Yancy'd had bruises for weeks after and his dick had been so sore after from overuse that he hadn't even been able to get it up for a couple of days. Sex with Chuck Hansen had been, no bullshit, the absolute highlight of Yancy's life, maybe even above winning his first Grand Slam title.

So fuck yes, he'd panicked and ran the fuck out as fast as he could, even though it had technically been his room, and had bunked with Raleigh until they'd flown to London for the ATP World Cup Finals tournament. Which _didn't_ mean he was a pussy, no matter what his stupid brother said. It just meant...

Alright, fine, maybe he _was_ a pussy. But he had a reason. Reasons, plural, even. Just because Chuck was hell on wheels in bed didn't mean, in retrospect, that sleeping with him had been a good idea. And maybe bailing before Chuck had woken up the next morning had been a dick move, but Yancy knew himself well enough to know that if he'd stuck around to make some sort of half-ass apology, he'd have given in to temptation and faceplanted right back on Chuck's very well-proportioned dick and after that, well, who the hell knew what might have happened then, aside from even more amazing sex. And maybe not calling after (or ever) wasn't strictly kosher, but Yancy had a healthy sense of self-preservation, and what the hell would he have said, anyway? Thanks for the ride, but you're way too much to handle? Yeah, no.

Yancy might have a reputation as a dominant and ruthless player, but he tried not to bring that aspect of his personality in his actual personal life. So yeah, call it self-preservation, whatever you want, but Yancy wasn't going to compound his mistakes by trying to pretend everything was cool after, when it really wasn't. 

He could only hope that he'd have some sort of plan about what to say and how to act once he and Chuck were face to face again. They may not run in exactly the same circles, what with the singles and doubles schedules being on different tracks and all, but they were bound to run into each other at least once here in Melbourne. Especially if they both played deep into the second week.

It was going to be a long tournament.

***

"Poor kid's gonna get crucified if he doesn't win this year," Raleigh commented, fingering through the Australian Open program – Chuck gracing the front cover, naturally – left lying on the front desk at their hotel. 

"He's not gonna win it all anyway without a better first serve." Yancy could talk Chuck's tennis game all day long without a second thought. It was everything else about Chuck that was the problem.

"You should offer to help him with that." Raleigh flashed a smile when Yancy frowned at him. "I'm just sayin', you've got a great power serve and maybe you could give him a few tips. Might be a good way to break the ice and make up for not calling him over the last couple of months."

"You do know he hasn't called me, either, Rals. Communication works both ways." Not that Yancy would have had clue one on what to say to Chuck if Chuck _had_ called, but that was just quibbling.

"Don't try to deflect, bro." Raleigh put down the program and transferred that mega-watt smile to the clerk, who'd reappeared with their room keys. They normally shared a two-bedroom suite when they were on the road – easier that way on their agent.

"Can I get either of you anything else?"

"I'd say help for my unfortunate brother, but I'm afraid he's past it," Raleigh said, and slapped the key card in Yancy's palm. "C'mon, old man, let's get settled and then go find a court."

"I should have drowned you when you were a kid," Yancy lamented, following Raleigh into the elevator. The bellhop, wheeling their luggage, kept pace behind them.

"Yeah yeah, you wouldn't have made number one without me, so give it up."

"I was a pretty decent singles player."

"Your highest ranking was #252," Raleigh countered. "You won, like, two titles."

"Maybe it's time to give it another shot."

"You keep talking, but I'm not hearing anything that's making any sense."

His brother was an asshole.

***

Early morning practices were the best time to get in some actual tennis work while on tour. Sure, the more dedicated fans were already circled around the courts like pale vultures, but they were mostly quiet and respectful and just there to watch the players hit a few ground strokes and maybe get an autograph or two after. Which was fine, Yancy loved the fans, and always tried to give them time when he could – provided they weren't coming up to him while he was in a restaurant on a date or in a restroom just trying to take a leak – but the early morning crowds were the best. Plus it meant he had the rest of the day to study tape or get his physio in or do weights or cardio or take a few calls from sponsors or whatever. His brother always grumbled about wanting an extra half hour of sleep, but he was a slug and his opinion didn't count, so Yancy mostly ignored him. Give the guy enough coffee and he'd shut up about anything.

But there was no waking his useless brother up this morning (something about jetlag, blah blah, Yancy'd tuned him out after about four slurred words into it), so Yancy had grabbed his racket, laced on his custom Nikes, and hit the courts on his own. He knew he wouldn't have any trouble finding someone to partner with for an hour or so, he never did. He probably could have woken up Bob Bryan, their coach, but he ultimately decided against it. He'd have his hands full the next (hopefully) two weeks as it was.

There was hardly anyone out and about this early – the gates weren't even open yet, so there were no fans on the grounds – but Yancy spotted young Mako Mori and her stern (but very hot) coach, Stacker Pentecost, running through backhand drills on one of the courts, and he also passed Newt and Gottlieb on another court swatting lobs back and forth while also doing their level best to ignore each other. Which was still weird as fuck, but also pretty normal. (The two of them had the oddest rivalry on the tour, either ATP or WTA, and it wasn't even close. Even Raleigh, who pretty much got along with everyone and had been the peacemaker more than once when tempers had flared, couldn't get them to agree on anything. But they always practiced together and they always seemed to relish the times they got to play against each other. There was a standing bet amongst some of the players that one day they'd actually kill each other during a match.)

But it wasn't until he saw the early morning sunlight glinting off Chuck Hansen's unmistakable ginger hair that he stumbled to a stop. Chuck was alone, his coach and uncle, Scott, nowhere in sight for once, and firing forehand after forehand against one of the Tennis Pro Machines, the sound rhythmic and booming every time a ball struck against his racket. He was in black gym shorts that showcased the best thighs in the game or all of sports (thighs Yancy vividly remembered in great and very x-rated detail) and a thin grey tank top already soaked through with sweat, powerful shoulders (shoulders Yancy had grabbed and marked during their night together) and arms bunched and coiling with every strike. Chuck's game would never be elegant or pretty, but his brutal brand of aggression and the amount of heavy topspin he created every single time he hit the ball was its own sort of poetry. And when Chuck paused the machine to swipe his face with a towel and those startlingly pretty green eyes caught him staring, Yancy knew he was pretty much fucked.

So much for having time to mentally prepare himself. 

Chuck lowered the towel and cocked his head like Yancy was a particularly fascinating bug. "Guess you didn't die after all," he drawled, his rolling nasally Australian twang cutting through the space between them.

Yancy winced. He was thankful for the chainlink fence separating them. "Guess not."

"See, I'd thought maybe you might've, on account of how you disappeared in the middle of the night and all in Paris."

Yancy winced again. It wasn't like he didn't deserve every snide comment Chuck chose to toss his way. "Uh, yeah. About that..."

"Nah, mate, you don't owe me dick." Chuck bounced one of the tennis balls on the hard court, thunk thunk thunk, squinting a little in the sun. "We had an alright time of it, but I reckon that's all it was."

"Alright?" The best sex of Yancy's life and Chuck thought it was just _alright_? For a moment, he forgot that he'd been the one who'd done the leaving, not the other way around.

Chuck shrugged, like he hadn't just dealt a body blow to Yancy's ego. "Next time you chase after someone for a goddamn year, a word of advice. Don't rabbit off like you're fucking ashamed of the deed. Might give a bloke reason to doubt his abilities in the sack, yeah."

Yep, totally felt like the lowest snake to ever slither on the earth. And, again, totally deserved. "Fuck, I'm sorry, alright. I am. I...I guess I deserved that."

"Yeah, you did." Chuck finally tossed the ball aside and grabbed his gym bag. "Court's all yours, mate," he said, and walked out, heading in the opposite direction. 

"Fuck," Yancy muttered to himself. That could have gone...better.

***

"As much as I hate to say I told ya so, bro, I fucking told ya so," Raleigh said, with the sort of insufferable smugness that meant he was really enjoying Yancy's misery. Younger siblings, man – couldn't drown them at birth, couldn't get rid of them, especially when they were your partner on the court.

"You can suck my balls," Yancy replied, and lifted his middle finger, just in case Raleigh wasn't getting the message.

"Ewww, seriously, you're my brother, what the hell kind of sick pervert are you?" Raleigh asked, neatly swiping Yancy's last piece of toast before Yancy could stop him.

Yancy glowered, but Raleigh just chomped down like he was munching on a nice juicy steak. Honestly, he should have beat Raleigh a helluva lot more when they were kids. "You're a dick," he commented, and picked up his coffee cup. 

"Maybe, but I'm not the one who fucked up spectacularly with the guy I'd been making moon eyes at for a solid year, so at least I've got that going for me." Raleigh leaned back in his chair and gave Yancy an expectant look. "You got a plan or are you just gonna stay holed up here in the suite until matches start?"

"That's not a bad idea, actually." It beat facing Chuck again, that was for sure. And, hey, it was only a few days, not like he needed to practice or get any work in or anything. Not like they had a title to defend and sponsors to keep happy.

"You brought this on yourself, you know," Raleigh pointed out, because stating the obvious was sort of his thing.

"Thanks for the reminder."

"You should probably just go and grovel at his feet for his forgiveness or something."

"I'm pretty sure he doesn't want to speak to me again," Yancy replied, rolling his eyes. "Also, that's a terrible fucking idea, no wonder you're single."

"Fine, but don't blame me when he breaks your heart by deciding not to wait around for you and gets involved with someone else," Raleigh said. "If I swung that way at all, I'd make a play for him just to really teach you a lesson in nutting up or shutting up."

"Bros before hos," Yancy reminded him. "Besides, you _don't_ swing that way. And I thought you had your eye on Mako. You two've gotten awfully close the last few months."

"For someone who spends so much time with me, you're a fucking idiot," Raleigh said, and chuckled. "Mako's amazing, but she's not my type. Now, her coach's sister, on the other hand... Humina." He thumped his hand over his heart in emphasis.

"Luna? Really?" Stacker Pentecost's model-hot younger sister? "He'll kill you just for even _thinking_ about it."

"Nah, he likes me. I help him keep Mako focused during practice and in matches."

"I don't think liking how you help Mako on the court extends to you wanting to date his sister," Yancy said.

"Got to get her to say yes to a date first," Raleigh replied.

His brother had a death wish. "Whatever, man, it's your funeral."

"Besides, stick to fixing your own love life," Raleigh said, and stuffed the last bite of toast in his mouth.

He had mentioned Raleigh was a pig, right?

***

Still, as much as he hated to admit it, Raleigh did kinda sorta maybe have a point, although he'd deny it if asked. He at least owed Chuck an explanation for why he'd bolted. And why he hadn't called or texted or even tweeted at the guy or anything else. He'd known this day was coming. And if not in Australia, then at some point over the next year on the tour. He and Raleigh and Chuck did tend to play a lot of the same tournaments.

So yeah, he owed Chuck. Preferably _before_ play started, because the last thing he wanted was to cause a distraction either for himself (see, title defense, etc) or for Chuck (who had enough fucking pressure on him, what with trying to play with the hopes and dreams of an entire continent on those wide shoulders), and the game had to come first, before anyone's personal life. 

Which was why, after his physio and his cardio and his afternoon practice with Raleigh, he showered and got dressed in his favorite pair of jeans and his lucky Iron Man t-shirt (oh, the stories that t-shirt could tell...most of them of the decidedly x-rated variety, hence the "lucky" part) and strolled into the living room/sitting area of the suite. Raleigh was lounging on the sofa in a pair of sweats and watching something that looked like a bad Skinemax movie – light on plot, but heavy on bare, bouncing breasts. 

Raleigh took one look at Yancy's outfit and shook his head. "You know, going out on the prowl is a terrible idea before first round."

"I'm not –" Yancy sighed. "I'm going to go apologize to Chuck."

"Dressed in those jeans and that t-shirt? Breaking out the big guns, I see."

It was true that the jeans did make his ass look truly amazing and the t-shirt was this soft cotton that practically molded itself to his chest (there was a reason it was his lucky one), but Yancy wasn't about to give Raleigh any ammunition. "Anyway, I shouldn't be too long."

"Keep telling yourself that, bro," Raleigh replied, and turned back to the TV and the extremely poorly lit sex scene currently playing on it.

Yancy thought about asking him why he wasn't just watching internet porn like normal people, but he didn't actually want to know the answer, and he knew any discussion would really just be him stalling, so he swiped his keycard and phone from the table and headed out. He got lucky in the lobby, as there were only a few fans mingling around, and after a few minutes signing giant tennis balls and programs and posing for a few pics, he was able to escape and head down the street towards Chuck's hotel. Hopefully Chuck was still the same superstitious player he'd always been and had booked the same hotel and same suite he always got, otherwise Yancy was going to have to resort to his backup plan.

And since his backup plan involved his younger brother getting in touch with Mako (who would definitely know where Chuck was staying, as Stacker and Chuck's father had been best friends since, like, forever, and Chuck and Mako had more or less grown up together on the junior circuit and in the pros), he really really hoped Plan A worked.

There were a lot more fans mingling around outside Chuck's hotel, which made him hope he was in luck, especially since most of them were sporting Aussie Striker shirts or posters bearing Chuck's name. He was able to duck and weave around most of them, thankfully, and way too fast for his comfort, he found himself standing in front of the door to (what he hoped was) Chuck's suite. 

He could man up and do this. He just hoped Chuck hadn't decided to go out to dinner or had someone over or –

Chuck answered on the first knock, took one look at Yancy, and scowled. "What the fuck do you want?"

Chuck was shirtless and wearing an indecently low-cut pair of pajama pants that were so thin they may as well have been transparent. His hips were so defined they could have been used to cut diamonds and that chest and those abs were worthy of entire blogs devoted to their virtues. Yancy's entire body clenched in response. His tongue dried up like water hitting asphalt in the middle of summer.

"Um..."

The scowl deepened. "Out with it, it's not like I don't have matches to start preparing for or anything."

"Right, um." Yancy took a deep breath. Forced his gaze up from Chuck's very naked and very tempting chest and up into stormy, decidedly unfriendly green eyes. "I came to apologize."

"You did that this morning," Chuck told him, not moving an inch.

"I came to do it properly this time."

"And three nights before the start of the most important tournament of the entire bloody _year_ for me sounded like your idea of good timing?"

Well, when Chuck put it like that... "I didn't want it hanging over our heads and being a distraction," Yancy offered, with a sheepish shrug.

"Buggering Christ on a cracker, you're unbelievable." Chuck yanked the door open wide and gestured. "Well, get a move on and get it over with then."

Yancy crossed the threshold gratefully, and stopped in the middle of the sitting room. The TV was on mute, but Yancy was pretty sure Chuck had been watching one of the Lord of the Rings movies (at least, he thought there were elves and orcs battling it out on screen, but fantasy was more his brother's speed, not his) when Yancy had shown up. Then Chuck was standing in front of him, his impressive arms crossed over his impressive chest, and Yancy couldn't concentrate on anything else.

"Well, go on, then," Chuck said, after a minute of awkward silence. "Let's hear it."

Yancy shuffled from foot to foot. "I normally try hard not to agree with Raleigh about anything, but I was a dick."

He wasn't sure, but he thought maybe Chuck's lips might have curved upwards ever so slightly. "Yeah, you were."

Emboldened, he continued. "I shouldn't have snuck out like that. It was a total douche move."

"Yeah, it was."

Chuck didn't move, but Yancy thought maybe his stance was softening. Maybe. "And I should have called or texted or something."

"You're shite at this, you know that, right?" Chuck asked, and that was definitely amusement lurking in his tone.

"Yeah, I know, but I'm not sure what to say here."

"How about you tell me why you scurried off like a bloody thief," Chuck said, with a shrug. "I thought we'd been having a pretty good time."

Pretty good time. That was twice Chuck had wounded his ego. Maybe Yancy deserved that, too. "If by pretty good time, you mean the best freaking sex of my life, sure," he said, deciding he may as well get the truth out there.

Chuck's brows came together in a frown. "Alright, now you've lost me."

"I bailed _because_ the sex was so great."

"Yeah, really not following along here," Chuck said, after a few seconds. "You'd been after me a year before I finally said yeah, alright, let's have at it. You really thought the sex was going to be _bad_?"

"Well, no, but I wasn't expecting it to be the best sex of my life, either," Yancy answered, and wondered if he sounded as ridiculous as he felt right now. This conversation was taking a complete and total left turn.

Chuck raked a hand through his hair, and frowned again. Even his frowns were sexy as fuck. "You're a fucking yobbo, you know that."

Yancy had no idea what that meant, but he was pretty sure it wasn't anything complimentary. "You scared the shit out of me, alright," he said, and let out a slow, shuddering breath. "And I'm sorry that I couldn't handle it. But I'm here now and I know it's not enough, but I just wanted to apolo –"

There were soft, chapped lips pressed against his own. _Chuck's_ soft, chapped lips were pressed against his own. Yancy stilled, barely breathing, as Chuck pulled back. "Zip it," he said, and waited for Yancy's bobble-headed nod before continuing. "You planning on running out that door again?"

Yancy shook his head so quickly he thought he might have vertigo.

"You willing to give this thing between us a proper go and see if something comes of it?"

" _Yes_ ," Yancy blurted, before he remembered he wasn't supposed to be talking. He nodded, and held his breath again. There was no way he was getting off this lightly. Chuck had to have an angle.

Then one of Chuck's hands cupped his jaw, and his eyes, bright and green, softened. "Then let's call Paris a mulligan, yeah?" he said, and brought their foreheads together. "You can speak now."

The words tumbled from him so fast he all but tripped over them. "Anything you want, Chuck, I'm so sorry, I am, I was an idiot –"

Again, he was stopped by a light kiss. "Already established that, mate," Chuck said, grinning. "You eaten yet?"

"No." He'd been too nervous to try to force anything down his throat when Raleigh'd ordered room service earlier.

"Alright, then stay for dinner. _Just_ dinner," Chuck added, with another grin. "I'm making you work proper for it this time."

"You made me wait a _year_ last time," Yancy pointed out, but couldn't stop from grinning himself.

"I should make you wait another one, but not even I'm that patient. Especially now that I know what you're like in bed," Chuck said, and slid his hand to Yancy's chest. "Let's see where we stand after the tournament."

"If you win, I want an entire weekend, just you and me."

" _When_ I win, I might just consider it," Chuck answered, and yeah, Yancy definitely had a weakness for self-assured men, because that was by far the hottest thing he'd heard all year.

"Deal," he said, and leaned back in for another kiss to seal it, before pulling back. "But if you don't want me to try to jump you while we're eating, you really need to put on a shirt. And a pair of pants that's not outlining your cock."

"Says the man who's wearing thigh-hugging jeans and a shirt that's showcasing the guns."

"I could go back to my hotel and change?"

Chuck laughed and shook his head. "Nah, I don't mind the view if you don't."

As long as they were sitting and his view was obscured by the table, Yancy thought he'd be okay. "Yeah, alright," he said. "And, um, maybe after dinner, I thought..."

"Uncle Scott'll be by in a bit, so keep it in the kiddie pool."

Right. Tournament. Which...well, maybe he could take Raleigh's advice somewhere else, too. "Okay, after dinner, if you're up for it, maybe we can find a court and go over your first serve."

Chuck lifted a brow. "You serious?"

Yancy nodded. "Yeah, I think I could help you drive off with more power. Not to brag, but that's sort of my thing."

"Yeah, I know, I've seen you play," Chuck replied, then cocked his head, studying Yancy like he couldn't quite figure him out. "You offering me your services now, is that it?"

"Yes," Yancy said, and meant it in every possible meaning of the word. "You know you can get through the early rounds on your return game and the forehand, but you're not going to beat Tendo or Newt or any of the other top guys without a killer serve, and I can help."

Chuck was silent for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah, alright then, let's have a go," he said. "But dinner first."

"Dinner first," Yancy said. He couldn't stop smiling.

 

And, a little more than two weeks later, when Chuck was holding up his well-deserved trophy to a deliriously raucous Aussie crowd and publicly thanking Yancy for, quote, "all of his help on and off the court", Yancy was pretty sure his smile was going to be a permanent fixture. He was more than okay with that.

***


End file.
